


Plastic Queen

by Ol_Dirty_Sock



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Costume Kink, Dry Humping, Genderplay, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ol_Dirty_Sock/pseuds/Ol_Dirty_Sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mechanical Animals era. Twiggy likes Manson’s new costume. He <i>really</i> likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plastic Queen

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely fictional.

Twiggy fidgeted as he waited for his partner in crime to finish transforming.

He hoped it’d shake off the obsessive thoughts that had distracted him lately, seeing him as something unrecognizable, something other than the shadow haunting the corners of his mind. The two of them had always been something closer than what people would call normal, but little about them could be called normal. What was a few hand jobs and make-out sessions between friends, especially considering everything else they got up to?

The desire for something beyond casual messing around had been a low-level hum in the background of his life almost from the moment they met, but it kept growing rawer and hungrier, and now he was infested with an itching, thumping heat that no drug could calm.

It hit its peak last year at the MTV Awards, when Manson commanded attention as he flung off his big black coat and exposed that pale, strange, _beautiful_ body, limbs and spine twisting and snapping to the relentless rhythm. Twiggy liked to think of the shockwave pulsing through the living rooms of America, of how many dropped jaws and flushed faces and shameful hard-ons it left in its wake. Most of all, he liked that while Manson was in the spotlight, he couldn’t have done it without Twiggy. Even if he couldn’t have Manson, he was forever a part of him, captured on film, censorship bleeps and commercial interruptions be damned.

He made his way over to where the makeup artists were working on their test run. There was a slight whiff of unnameable chemicals in the air as he approached and he could hear mumbles of what sounded like approval. He had a vague idea of what they were doing, but needed to see it for himself. All he could catch was fleeting glimpses of pale limbs and neon red hair. Then the assistant blocking Twiggy’s view moved aside. 

And there he stood, the all-new Marilyn Manson, like some warped sideshow-banner version of a painted Renaissance maiden, with luminous white skin, round high-set breasts, and an impossibly featureless crotch. His platform boots only added to the unearthly effect. Venus washed up on the dirty shores of California atop a clump of plastic bags and rotten seaweed, and it was glorious.

Manson spotted Twiggy staring at him out of the corner of his eye and gave an exaggerated stage wink, leaving him with a twinge in his chest and a clench in his guts. Mentally rehearsing the old “If only you were a woman...” cop-out wasn’t going to cut it anymore. He could’ve shook his fist like a frustrated cartoon character. _Manson, you crafty son of a bitch!_

He spent the next couple hours in a daze. The video was an elaborate big-budget production, and this first day ended up taking more time than expected. Twiggy had got dressed up for almost nothing, sighing at the prospect of going through it all again tomorrow and having to try and remain calm and semi-professional when Manson was wearing...all that, scant as it was. _It’s not gawky middle-school kids they need to worry about. Marilyn Manson is going to fucking destroy_ me. _Maybe I should make some protest signs and whip them out when we’re alone together._

He jolted when he felt a hand on his shoulder, then exhaled when he realized it was Manson’s. “Saw something you like, huh?” 

So much for any kind of protesting. They snuck off to a disused trailer, the rickety metal steps creaking beneath their boots. The harsh round lights around the mirror bounced off the ugly wood-paneled walls and the well-worn couch was a particularly foul shade of green, but all that mattered was the door could be locked behind them. 

Manson settled on the couch, then leaned back and spread his arms behind him, thrusting his chest out. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” There was something hard and aggressive in his eyes.

Twiggy felt numb and inarticulate and he wasn’t sure how to explain that this wasn’t some insecure bullshit about being scared to look too queer. He liked them because they were _his_ breasts, a _man’s_ breasts, something rare and wild, something only Manson could give him. They were a logical extension of something he already wanted so badly it gnawed at him.

“Go on, then,” he said, impatience cracking through his voice. “Feel them.” It dawned on Twiggy that maybe it wasn’t that he wanted to just get this over with, that maybe he was _proud_ of them, and wanted this just as much as Twiggy did. 

He wasn’t sure if the body paint was dry, but gave one a gentle squeeze nonetheless. They didn’t feel like the real thing, not even close. They didn’t even feel like _ordinary_ fake breasts. Cold and smooth, a rubbery shell over springy foam, both too hard and too soft, sticking out like they were bolted to his lanky frame. And yet, they were perfect. Since when did Manson ever look natural? 

That was how he’d wormed his way under Twiggy’s skin, after all. Any sucker could stuff himself into a suit and get a sitcom dad’s haircut, or match her shoes to her purse and slather herself in Mary Kay makeup just a hair away from what she was born with. Manson did things nobody else could, and for the most part he got away with it.

Twiggy continued caressing, all the while a weird little voice twirled around his consciousness, half _don’t break them, they’re probably expensive_ and half _don’t bruise Manson_ , and in some sense those mounds of false flesh must have become more than dead weight after all, because a crooked smile spread across the singer’s face and he pulled Twiggy closer. Manson bit his lip and sucked in a hissing breath as the other man’s dark eyes widened, glimmering with devotion and need. He hiked Twiggy’s skirt up and slithered against him, pressing their bodies together. Twiggy tried to focus on the subtle cacophony of fabric crinkling, couch creaking, breath hitching, anything to drown out the nervous jitter in his chest.

Manson did his part by capturing Twiggy’s lips in his. Twiggy moaned and let him in, tongue swirling aside to make room for the other. It was not a rehearsed kiss for the benefit of cameras or crowds, but the sublime clumsiness of trying to become impossibly close. They were entwined, conjoined at the mouth, with Twiggy getting off on Manson’s bizarre allure, and Manson getting off on the power he held over him. The basement rec-room decor felt all too fitting; his teenage dream was re-awakened and fulfilled at last.

The heat in him blossomed out from the pit of his stomach and suddenly his dress was on the floor, he was lifted up on his knees, and his cock was trapped between Manson’s thighs, hot and slick with sweat and body paint. The singer snaked a hand into Twiggy’s hair, bringing his face nestled between his breasts while kneading his long fingers into the mass of tangled dreadlocks. His other hand clung to Twiggy’s back, drifting downward and nudging him into a nervous thrust.

The weird shield over his crotch didn’t budge and Twiggy grew less careful, pumping against Manson, his erection snaking through the grooves of his body, hitting the strangely featureless surfaces and gliding between his ass cheeks. Every bump and pause made them both gasp and moan, and Twiggy hastened, fucking Manson’s thighs faster and faster as his cock throbbed and his balls tightened, growing closer to the point of no return.

Manson moved back and dodged him, teasing, letting the damp head of Twiggy’s dick just barely brush against him before jerking away again.

“Oh, fuck. _Please_ ,” Twiggy begged.

He relented and flexed his legs, lean sinewy muscles twitching along Twiggy’s aching cock. Twiggy grasped frantically, one hand on Manson’s breast and the other digging into his ribs, as he went over the edge into oblivion and cried out Manson’s name, legs quivering as he spilled into the narrow space between them, then slid out, slick with his own spunk.

Manson clenched his jaw. His eyelids fluttered, and he threw his hips back and slammed against Twiggy, grinding against his side as he growled something unintelligible into the crook of his neck and then sighed, long and low. He slumped back, his mannequin-white limbs going slack as he splayed them out and let Twiggy collapse against him. 

Twiggy caught his breath then prodded the cup between his legs, letting out a weak laugh. The seam was finally coming apart on one side. “Did...did you come in that? What are you going to tell the makeup people?”

“Fuck ‘em. They know who they’re dealing with.”

Twiggy shrugged and shoved that thought aside. It was far from the grossest thing they’d tangled someone up in. Instead he closed his eyes and reached for Manson’s head. His hair was stiff, fried from dye and crunchy with excess spray, but Twiggy ruffled it to the best of his ability anyway.

“You really are gorgeous,” he mumbled.

“Bullshit. I know you only love me for my tits.”

“No, you’re more to me than that. You’ve got a nice ass, too.” He reached down and gave it a squeeze as evidence, and was rewarded with a satisfied smirk.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a flash of heat lightning briefly lit up the sky, bursting through the cracks in the window blinds.

“You think that was because of us?” asked Manson. “A union so unholy even the sky itself dry-heaves...”

“Yeah, sure. Go write a fucking poem about it,” said Twiggy, eyelids heavy as he nuzzled against the singer’s collarbone.

Manson snorted and half-heartedly swatted at the air near Twiggy’s face.

In a few weeks, the world would see the return of the great and terrible Marilyn Manson in the flesh, but this time Twiggy was more than just a supporting role, watching (and playing bass) from the wings. As he revealed his new persona and unveiled his body again, changed and stranger, the hungry presence inside Twiggy was both soothed and yet stronger than ever before. Not only _I had some part in this_ but _He offered himself to me first, before all others. That masterpiece of a body, I held and cherished and left marks on. All the rest of you can only watch and wonder. But I fucked that. That’s mine._


End file.
